


You Whisper Soft And True

by luninosity



Series: Oh Boy! Or, Life's Better With A Buddy Holly Soundtrack [10]
Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Comfort, Comfort Sex, Comic-Con, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Interviews, Love, M/M, Not Quite Sure If That Needs A Tag, Sexual Content, Sort-Of Bottom!Michael, Thoughtless Comments, Topping from the Bottom, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt of, Sir Ian McKellen’s flippant Comic-Con comment about playing Magneto himself and not needing Michael at all in <i>Days of Future Past,</i> and Michael having a bit of self-doubt as a result, and being reassured by James. In every conceivable way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Whisper Soft And True

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakmefair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair/gifts).



> Sorry this ended up being super-late, love! *blows kisses*
> 
> Title, opening, and closing lines from Buddy Holly’s “Words of Love.”
> 
> As always, stories in this series come from prompt-suggestions from friends; I think I have two more waiting, but if you have something in mind, do ask...

  
_hold me close_   
_and tell me how you feel_   
_tell me love is real_

  
The comment’s a joke. Michael knows it’s a joke. Knows it’s meant to be amusing.  
  
And he finds himself oddly airless and shocked and aching everywhere anyway, as if the words’d been a fist to the stomach, forcing all the breath out of unsuspecting lungs.  
  
James is looking at him with concern, because of course James has noticed; one freckled hand lifts, and Michael manufactures a smile and whispers “I’m fine” even though he’s really not but if James interrupts the interview the whole damn world will notice too.  
  
Ocean-sunset eyes narrow, not fooled, but James respects him enough not to press the issue here and now with cameras trained on them and journalists taking avid notes. He knows that James is _also_ taking mental notes and will pull him aside and raise those eyebrows meaningfully the second they’re done; but James will, for now, accede to the request.  
  
The cameras’re still rolling. On all four of them. And Sir Ian McKellen’s snickering at his own glibness, plainly not truly meaning the remark, and the interviewer’s laughing along, and Sir Patrick’s smiling, over there, and the moment’s so interminable and unreal…  
  
If Ian had injured _James_ with that careless comment, Michael would’ve been shouting. Would’ve been on his feet ending the joint interview, and James wouldn’t’ve thanked him for it. Not James, who’s carried on gazing at him with fierce protective concern and mouthing, _stop now? break?_ in his direction. James would never agree to disappoint an audience for his own sake, but would for Michael’s, and Michael, horrified, realizes that he’s a second from saying yes.  
  
The words continue to sting and sear and bite. Fire-ants in the pit of his stomach. Nibbling under his skin.  
  
I don’t know why you’re even in this film, Sir Ian had said, smiling. I could play all the versions of myself, really. Young Magneto, old, anything you’d want, they do seem to keep asking us back, isn’t that right, Patrick.  
  
Patrick Stewart—who’d earlier, unprompted, announced that the best thing about the new film was the knowledge that in earlier life he’d somehow been James McAvoy—had laughed as well, and applauded.  
  
Shouldn’t hurt this badly. Not like this. Not like scalding blades through his gut.  
  
It’s all he can do to grin when the cameras spin to him, even though James is reaching to touch his hand, invisibly, along the back of the sofa.  
  
It hurts in a way that he can’t articulate, that’d be incomprehensible to anyone else. Even to James, who’s been, if not at superstar status, at least working steadily for years.  
  
It hurts the way that only truth can hurt. The way that no one who’s not spent over a decade bartending and working odd jobs just to pay rent and going out to audition after audition after audition, endless and fruitless, can ever comprehend.  
  
He loves everything about this life. The storytelling, the narratives he’s so privileged to get to bring to an audience, the imagination, the technical maneuvering bits involving the camera-lens and forced-perspective and special effects and what a viewer’s eye might see. And he’s only had it for so few years. So very few years.  
  
He’s never told James how close he’d come to giving up—to giving up on everything—one snowy December night. He suspects he’ll never have to. James knows. In the way that James kisses him, the way that James gazes at him sometimes, James knows.  
  
He’s only barely begun to think that maybe it can all be real. Himself on cinema screens. Himself getting scripts—enough to choose from!—in the mail. Awards murmurs from critics, those names from whom murmurs have influence. And not only all of that: summer-twilight eyes in his bed, acres of laughing freckles, tidy-whirlwind arms reaching up and saying: yes, come home, be with me, I love you.  
  
And Sir Ian has, with every best put-the-journalists-at-ease intention in the universe, taken it all away.  
  
The interview’s ending. He’s on his feet. Handshakes. Nodding.  
  
On autopilot. All of it.  
  
The warm solid ginger-dust hand lands at the small of his back, and Michael, unable to think, lets it guide him out of the room and down a hall and around a corner and down another surprisingly deserted hallway and then into the world’s tiniest conference room, no doubt why it’s not in use. James locks the door, one-handed, not breaking contact. Puts both hands on Michael’s shoulders. And says, secure and fortress-like and loving, “So.”  
  
Michael breathes in, meaning to answer. Can in the end only put his arms around James in turn and rest his cheek in all that hair, real lovely walnut-oak and lighter woven nineteen-seventies extensions, and tremble.  
  
“Okay,” James breathes back, and holds him, only holds him, while the quiet overhead lights shimmer white around them.  
  
After a while he thinks that maybe he should say something. James isn’t, no doubt not wanting to push, but the silence feels wrong too, like he doesn’t _want_ to explain himself. And he should. James won’t ask, but he should.  
  
“Ian,” he says finally, and James nods, stray strands of mischievous hair brushing across Michael’s lips. “Thought so. You know that’s ludicrous, right?” The tone isn’t condescending or patronizing, though. More curious: James inquiring as to whether Michael truly does.  
  
In return, honestly, he admits, “I don’t know,” and he knows that James knows he means it because those yoga-toned arms tighten around him.  
  
“Well, it is. Honestly. I know that, and you know that, and Ian knows that too. _First Class_ worked because we had a brilliant cast. And that includes you, and actually that’s mostly you, it was your story, along with everyone else. And even before that. Critical recognition. _Hunger_ , for one. Nothing to do with inside Hollywood deals, or who knows what people, or Ian’s innuendo, at all.”  
  
Yes, he understands. He shakes his head, meaning that yes he understands and also that part of the _First Class_ success was his visible and brilliantly undeniable chemistry with James, and James hugs him a bit tighter. “It’s only publicity. It’s only one interview. It’ll go away. And no one’ll take him seriously.”  
  
This time he whispers, “I know,” because he genuinely does, and because otherwise James’ll keep reassuring him. And eventually they’ll have to vacate this conference room. Might be an upcoming film panel in there at some point. A very miniature one.  
  
“Hey,” James tries, “Ian proposed marriage to you earlier, if I’m not mistaken.”  
  
“Yes—no, but he wasn’t serious—”  
  
“And he wasn’t serious now. He loves headlines. We all know that.” That jewel-box gaze is steady, unwavering. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to punch him in the face, for a second there. But I didn’t.”  
  
“I—you did? I thought the two of you were just playing it up for the—I just—” He stops. Really looks at James, at those clear blue eyes, currently so full of concern. James hasn’t looked away; there’s compassion in every line of his body, in the hands on Michael’s shoulders, in those slightly parted lips.  
  
And Michael feels cheap and selfish and ugly.  
  
For the discontent, for the way he’s worrying those beautiful eyes, for being so affected by what he rationally comprehends must’ve been a laugh, a throwaway comment. He _is_ being selfish: he has everything he’s ever imagined and more, cinema leading-man status and the love of his life here in his arms and fans screaming in the audience when he walks on stage.  
  
He has everything, and he’s complaining about it _to_ that love of his life. To James, who lives every single day with brutal nightmares and icy hands and a knee that twinges every time the rains come sleeting in. James, who’s standing here gazing at him anxiously, hoping to help him smile again, artless and heartfelt and in love. Christ.  
  
He says, “Never mind.” And knows instantly that it’s too abrupt, too harsh. James flinches, barely perceptible but visible to someone who’s memorized all the shifts behind surface-sparkles in the blue.  
  
“It matters to you,” James answers regardless, not backing down. “So tell me. What you’re feeling…it might not be what I’d feel, but they’re still your feelings, and you’re feeling them. That’s real. Um. Sorry if that sentence didn’t make a lot of sense. Too many feelings. You know what I mean.”  
  
Michael’s shaking. Too many feelings. Yes. He does know.  
  
“I love you,” James says. “You can’t say anything to fuckin’ change that. Even if you tell me you’ve, I don’t know, decided to start wearing Magneto’s sparkly dresses in public. I’ll dance with you on the Comic-Con stage.”  
  
Michael breathes in. Out. Shaky.  
  
“…you would.”  
  
“Waltz, or tango?”  
  
“God. James. I love you. What did I ever—how did I ever deserve you, I can’t—” Both arms around those sturdy shoulders, face buried in dark waves of hair; James’s arms are around him too, certain and strong. James smells like shower-soap and clean green sweetness, crisp and bright, familiar and beloved, and Michael breathes him in, running hands over his back, not able to get enough.  
  
“Well,” James says thoughtfully, “I am pretty incredible. So clearly you’ve done something right.”  
  
Michael has to laugh, watery though it is. “You are. Yes.”  
  
“Ah, see, that worked. But seriously, you… _you_ are. Not me. You make me laugh, and you make me smile, and you hold me when I need that, and you’re a fuckin’ brilliant actor, of course, there’s that. And you make coffee for me in the mornings. But you know all that. And you know…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You know that you do deserve this.” That seawater gaze is absolutely serious, when James pulls back to look at him. “Not just me, I mean. Look at your resume, really look. The sorts of films you get. The award nominations, and that is an honor, don’t say it’s not. The critics who talk about you. Steve talking about you—which every time makes me think I ought to be jealous, by the way, you’ve no idea—and your fans, come on, have you seen the internet?”  
  
“Don’t we…usually…stay off the internet…”  
  
“Yes, but this is important.” James lifts eyebrows at him, loftily sure. “Go and check. You have fans—intelligent, articulate, passionate people. Good people. And you have me.”  
  
“I love you,” Michael says again, because that’s all he’s got left. “I’m sorry. You— _seriously_ jealous? About _Steve?_ ”  
  
“Maybe a little.” But smiling, lopsided and lovely, coaxing the answering expression onto Michael’s own face. “But you come home to me.”  
  
“Always.” He pulls James more closely against him, loving the way they fit together, the shapes of those compact muscles aligning with his. “Always. I don’t need the internet. I—what was that?”  
  
“Nothing!”  
  
“You’re standing differently!”  
  
“I’m not—”  
  
“Christ—James, does this hurt? Your knee?”  
  
“No.” But James is keeping more of his weight on one leg than the other, and it’s noticeable. Michael’s heart pounds. “Not really. For a second. Off-balance. Long day. I’m fine.”  
  
“Did I do that? Just now?”  
  
“No. I’m fine, I swear.” Demonstrated by a shift in position, redistribution, equilibrium. “Are _you?_ ”  
  
“I’m—not important, you should sit down—”  
  
“Michael,” James says, and Michael stops with hands hovering uselessly over that beloved waist, ready to pluck James up and carry him off to safety and wrap him in blankets and icepacks and tea. His name, in that voice. Tartan banners and bagpipes skirling in the breeze. And in his heart he’s on his knees, drawing his dagger and vowing undying fealty, every time.  
  
James runs a hand through his own hair, rumpling the beleaguered extensions even further. “Are you all right? Talk to me.”  
  
“I will be.” He’s only meaning to reassure those eyes; he realizes as he says the words, however, that they’re true.  
  
The shock of it leaves him dizzy for an instant. He’s not quite back to stable ground yet, but. He will be.  
  
He believes everything James has said. Every word. They’ll need some time to sink in, but he knows they will; he can feel that certainty settling into his soul. Ian meant the joke _as_ a joke, and his career isn’t going anywhere, and he _is_ good at finding characters, at telling stories, at reaching out to an audience and getting an emotional response. He believes he’s done as much before; believes he can do that again.  
  
And James has given that back to him.  
  
All at once he wants to laugh, or weep, with it: the champagne-bubble of emotion rising in his heart, relief and weightlessness and gratitude and inexplicable joy.  
  
“I’m all right,” he says once more, and reaches out to touch the closest freckled cheek, meaning to assist with brushing the wayward waves back into place; but he ends up simply running his fingertips over cinnamon-cream skin and ginger stubble, the arch of a cheekbone, the pulse-point in that temple, the softness of breath and the whisper of eyelashes when James nods.  
  
“Good, then. Like you.”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“I know. Come on.”  
  
“Where’re we—”  
  
“Hotel,” James says, and Michael holds his hand and lets himself be pulled out of the empty meeting-room, down hallways, out to a cab—not the arranged studio car, which isn’t scheduled to come until later, and James pays the driver before Michael, bemused, can protest.  
  
Through the swinging glass doors of their Southern California hotel. Into an elevator, where James kisses him, inarguable and burningly sure. Michael’s senses are full of the scent of green apples and summer grass and the taste of chapstick and James. He’s trying to think, to remember to be frightened, to spot any hint of a limp or a stumble; but it’s difficult when James is this determined to make his higher brain functions give way to the demands of certain other body parts.  
  
James tugs him through the door and over to the bed and slides hands up under his shirt and down his pants and suddenly Michael’s clothes’ve disappeared and blue eyes are gazing at him with pure unadulterated desire. “I want you,” James says, and rests a hand on his waist. “Right now.”  
  
“Very much yes—” He touches one wrist, inquiring: the intensity of restraints, or the weight of my hands holding you down, or only the simple sweetness of the two of us, your legs wrapped around my hips and your hands on my shoulders?  
  
James smiles again. “No. You. If you want that.”  
  
Michael literally can’t move for a second, frozen with comprehension.  
  
They don’t switch that often, and he’s never minded, not as such. He loves the way James responds, the way James arches and cries out and comes so beautifully under him, Michael’s cock buried deep in that yielding body; he knows that James loves it all too, loves feeling claimed and taken and cherished. And it’s glorious, always.  
  
James will of course top if Michael asks for that, or if the exact right mood is hanging in the air, if Michael’s perhaps interrupted him in the kitchen with a precisely timed note of endearing persistence. James doesn’t offer frequently, and Michael understands that it simply doesn’t occur to him; understands that James never really pictures himself in that role, taking control of the encounter and the pace and their positions. James never _had_ , ever, before the first time Michael’d made the suggestion.  
  
He’s thrilled and humbled every time James does offer, because he knows why the offer comes.  
  
“James,” he gets out, astounded.  
  
James blushes faintly, but shrugs one shoulder, and doesn’t look away. “I want to. If you do. You’ve not said yes. You’ve not said anything really.”  
  
“Yes,” Michael says promptly. “Yes. Please. Love you.”  
  
“Yes,” James says, and there’s a flicker of a question at the edge of Michael’s thoughts, a snag of unease. He’s not certain why, so he steps closer and puts both hands on James’s face and kisses him, leisurely and methodical, trying to imprint himself and his love on every atom of those lips, and if possible all the way into that generous heart and soul.  
  
Somehow that must’ve been the exact right thing to do, because when he lets that bottom lip slide away at last, with one final nip of teeth, when he rests their foreheads together, James whispers, “I love you,” and oh. That’s it.  
  
Michael’d said it earlier, too. Twice, before James had said it back.  
  
He strokes tumbling hair out of one jewel-blue eye. “Are you all right, love?”  
  
James nods. Doesn’t ask why he’s asking, but answers, “Now,” and leans against him.  
  
“You _are_ incredible,” Michael tells him, and kisses the corner of his eyebrow, noses behind his ear, along his jaw, finding soft and welcoming skin. “Amazing. May I take your clothes off?”  
  
Both eyebrows shoot up. “You’re asking permission? Yes, by all means.”  
  
“Yes,” Michael says back, because it sounds like the precise right word: agreement and promise and adoration all in one. And then he strips away James’s clothing, piece by piece, deliberate as a ritual.  
  
That tightly-fitted classic X-Men shirt, the one that James’d bought on the convention floor, laughing. Even tighter white v-neck beneath, cotton holding the impression of nutmeg-and-gilt-spangled skin. The flick of that belt, old cooperative leather.  
  
He kneels for the jeans. Slips them lower inch by inch, tantalizing them both with the reveal. James is breathing quickly, and one hand hovers just above his head, not quite landing. Michael smiles, leans forward, and presses lips over the crease between thigh and hip, an imprint of himself in that secret space.  
  
And then he looks up, and James is smiling, though the awe’s winning out, in the expression.  
  
James says, quietly, “I do love you, you know.”  
  
“I know.” Equally hushed. “Now go lie down, I’m not going to let you stand up for this.”  
  
“I thought at least _part_ of me was—”  
  
“Yes, all right, I see your…point. Don’t make me carry you.”  
  
“Too heavy,” James retorts, “and extremely able to walk,” and then disproves this fact by vaulting onto the oversized bed in one fluid motion that puts no weight at all on the knee in question.  
  
Michael lifts an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t dwell on it. Pushing will only make blue eyes turn away, and that’s not what he wants for either of them. He only shrugs out of his own clothing as rapidly as he can, and comes over to where James is lounging like an invitation to all sorts of delectable sin among crisp white sheet-hills.  
  
He can’t really talk, no words left, but he kisses James everywhere, every single sparkling freckle-pinwheel and every spot he knows will earn soft gasps and whimpers and tiny choked-off cries. It’s an honor, for him. An act of avowal. Worship.  
  
When James is all but incoherent, swearing desperately at him in that gorgeous Highland-sunset accent and quivering with each touch, Michael pauses. Runs a hand over his hip, his thigh. Asks gently whether he’s sure.  
  
James lifts that head, sweat-damp hair sticking to his face, and pants, “Come here right the fuck now—I mean if you want, if you want me to—”  
  
And Michael breathes in and his hands shake just a fraction, reaching for the lube.  
  
James naturally notices. “Michael—if you don’t want—”  
  
“Are you insane,” Michael retorts, “I absolutely want, yes, James, yes, only you just sort of don’t move—I mean please don’t move, let me do everything, all the—”  
  
One freckled hand settles over his. And James doesn’t give voice to all those understood words. Only, after a moment, “You want me to lie here and watch you get yourself ready for me? Completely fuckin’ yes,” delivered perfectly in that perfect accent, and Michael starts laughing, helpless and overjoyed and in love.  
  
He puts on a show, after that. He’s been practically challenged to, after all.  
  
Fingers. Slickness. Teasing his own body open, as he kneels there on the bed. As he kneels there with James gazing up at him, all hot heavy-lidded blue and slow appreciative lip-licks, observing. The position’s a bit awkward. He doesn’t care.  
  
He swings a leg over James’s hips—James tries to sit up, and Michael puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back down—and sinks down, slowly.  
  
James gasps, and then goes very still, as if afraid to move or breathe or startle him.  
  
Michael grins. Lifts up, adjusts the angle a fraction, and slides lower.  
  
Taking James inside him. All of that wonderful thick length, so hot and sweet, filling him exactly where he’s aching to be filled.  
  
James is whispering his name, vowels and consonants catching and spilling in messy disarray. Michael whispers in reply, “Love you, James,” and then pushes himself all the way down, sheathing James inside him to the hilt.  
  
He nearly comes on the spot, because _Christ_ , so good, that thickness right there, where all the nerves’re singing and electric, and James’s hips jerk up in response, forcing the pressure even deeper—  
  
He leans forward and down, letting some of that length slip free. James opens his mouth. Michael reminds him, lips nearly touching, breath mingling, “I told you not to move,” and James makes a noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a frustrated groan. “I can’t—”  
  
“Yes, you can. Or I’ll stop.” He moves a hand to his chest. Rolls a nipple between two fingertips; sees the blue gaze go all intent and focused. His nipples’ve never actually been that sensitive—James’s are, as they’ve happily and thoroughly established—but it doesn’t not feel good, and from the resultant visible shiver, James definitely likes watching him play with his own body.  
  
“You don’t want me to stop, do you?” Just in case, he lets the hand drift down to his cock. Finds the grip he likes best, the angle and firmness, and strokes once, exquisitely drawn-out, letting blue eyes follow every movement of lube-slick hand over heated skin. When he rubs his thumb across the head, and makes himself shudder inadvertently, James breathes in sharply.  
  
Michael smirks.  
  
James attempts, practically pleading, “At least let me touch you,” and Michael considers, nods in agreement, catches both of those hands, and sets them on his hips. “You can hold on.”  
  
“Oh _fuck_ ,” James says, eyes huge, and Michael leans down one more time and kisses the tip of his nose, and the resultant expression’s an enchanting mixture of astonishment and desire.  
  
And then he sits back up, and starts to move in earnest.  
  
Himself riding James’s cock. Hips and thighs lifting, rocking, quivering with strain. James’s arousal sliding in and out of him, friction and wetness and ecstasy. Because they don’t do this often, his body’s tight even with the hasty prep; but it feels even more splendid with that, the way James’s cock rubs deliciously against all of his inner walls, billowing pleasure with just a bare hint of roughness like the golden burn of good whisky, intoxicating to the senses.  
  
James’s hands’re clamped tight on his hips, and there’ll be bruises later. He revels in it: this is real, this is all real, James offering him this, James inside him, the universe filled to the brim and spilling over around them with love. And he feels all his muscles tighten, too, at the thought.  
  
“Michael—” James’s whole body tenses, poised. “I’m—oh, fuck—you’re so good, you feel so good, I have to, I’m going to—”  
  
“Yes,” Michael gasps, “yes,” and he can _feel_ James coming inside him, the white-hot dizzying rush of it hitting that sparking bundle of nerve endings just _there_ —  
  
That pushes him over the edge, and he’s coming too, hand wrapped around his base but not even stroking his cock because he’s forgotten to, splashes landing messily over that freckled stomach and chest and even James’s throat and chin.  
  
James, breathing hard, sits up and flings arms around him and pulls him down on top. Michael, dazed and euphoric, can’t even protest. Not when James is clinging to him, heedless of stickiness, and whispering, “I love you,” against the side of his face.  
  
They hold each other for a while in the quiet sunny hotel room, curtains closed but mid-afternoon light sneaking out to bloom across the carpet anyway.  
  
Eventually, he nuzzles at a pale Scottish-linen shoulder, nudging freckles back to wakefulness. James mumbles something indistinct, and pats his back with one vague hand.  
  
“Come on, love. I know you’re awake.”  
  
“ ’m not. Entirely asleep. Wore me out.”  
  
“Yes,” Michael says, and bites his shoulder, not hard. “That’s why. Can you sit up? Let me look at you?”  
  
There’s an irritated-kitten grumbling noise; but James sighs and opens drowsy-ocean eyes, and meets his gaze with a smile in all the waves. “All right. It’s not bad. Just a lot of standing on it, today, and then…”  
  
“So I did sort of…” He kisses the smile, apology and devotion all in one. “Earlier. I made you sort of lose balance. Trip over me. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Really okay,” James says, and fingers knead his back, tired but positive, “just for a second, kind of a twinge. Not your fault. But you can give me a massage if you want, in a minute. Not a long one. Afternoon panel to get back for. Hugh’s afterparty. If you’re about to ask me whether I can, don’t you dare.”  
  
“…you can do anything, and I love you?” Which earns another smile, James lying beneath him amid scattered pillows, lovely and sex-flushed and still sticky in places with Michael’s orgasm. Michael wants to kiss him forever. To never let go.  
  
James tips that head to one side, nibbles a lip, raises mobile eyebrows. Lifts a hand and traces a question mark, inquisitive and affectionate and purposeful, over Michael’s bicep.  
  
And Michael balances on both elbows, still lying mostly atop him; uses one hand to awkwardly stroke all that hair away from falling into questioning sapphire tidepools, and answers, “I can, too.”  
  
It’s an answer to the unspoken question, but it’s also more. Yes, he can go back to the convention and the interviews and the party, and he can smile, and he is all right: he’s back on solid ground, earth firm beneath his feet. The comments’re only comments, and he knows who he is.  
  
And yes, he can do anything, with James, for James, with those blue eyes at his side. That’s who he is, as well.  
  
“Yes,” James echoes, because James is magical and wonderful and has plainly telepathically overheard that thought, so Michael says “Massage now?” and means _I love you so damn much, forever, I’m definitely absolutely not going to fucking cry_. And James says “In a minute, I said, seriously, so impatient, right now I’m busy loving the way you feel on top of me,” and wraps both arms around his back, holding on, and kisses his ear.

 

  
_words of love_   
_you whisper soft and true_   
_darling, I love you_


End file.
